


The Kids Aren't Alright

by MxMearcstapa



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Childhood Trauma, Dimitri Week (Fire Emblem), Dimitri Week 2020, Dimitri Week 2020 (Fire Emblem), Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragedy of Duscur (Fire Emblem), Trauma, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28196895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxMearcstapa/pseuds/MxMearcstapa
Summary: The “Tragedy of Duscur,” as they were calling it.A tragedy was something sorrowful, something senseless. A tragedy was something powerful and unavoidable. A tragedy invoked pity and despair. Duscur was not a tragedy. Everything that had happened in the Duscur peninsula, to the Duscur people—from the assassination of his father and stepmother and the entire royal party to the vindictive and ill-informed pogroms against the innocent that had followed—had been an outrage.---In which Dimitri sneaks off in the middle of a celebration to hang out with Dedue following the Tragedy of Duscur.The kids are not all right.For Dimitri Week 2020 Day 1: Feast/Mourning
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Rufus Blaiddyd
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	The Kids Aren't Alright

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S DIMITRI'S BIRTHDAY, THEY SAID  
> WRITE FLUFF, THEY SAID  
> The prompts were "feast" and "mourning," I *had* to--
> 
> CW: whump, so much angst, trauma, and some suicidal thoughts. 
> 
> If you are struggling, please reach out to someone, and know that we love you.  
> It's okay to not be okay. Stay right here. <3

It had been three moons since the massacre. The “Tragedy of Duscur,” as they were calling it.

_Tch_.

Dimitri almost snorted into his gratin. It had been one of his favorites once, but now it tasted like ash, like everything did since he came out the sole survivor of the flames. He stabbed at it with his fork.

A tragedy.

A tragedy was something sorrowful, something senseless. A tragedy was something powerful and unavoidable. A tragedy invoked pity and despair. Duscur was not a tragedy. Everything that had happened in the Duscur peninsula, to the Duscur _people_ —from the assassination of his father and stepmother and the entire royal party to the vindictive and ill-informed pogroms against the innocent that had followed—had been an _outrage_.

And here they were, the entirety of the castle in Fhirdiad—or what was left of it anyway—celebrating with a feast for the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Founding Day like everything was the same as it had always been.

Dimitri thought he might be sick.

He shifted his chair back, the wood scraping loudly against the tile. He did not need to look up to know every eye at the table was on him.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he mumbled and walked away without making eye contact.

“Prince Dimitri, a moment,” a voice called.

_And here it comes._

His uncle Rufus, the Kingdom’s Regent—until Dimitri was old enough, at least. Dimitri did not get along with his uncle, not the least because he reminded Dimitri of his late father. Their faces bore too many similarities, but his uncle’s differed in key ways—his features were warped, twisted, like someone had tried to paint King Lambert from memory and failed. The likeness was there: the blond hair and blue eyes that ran strong in the Blaiddyd line—but so much else was disparate. Where his father’s beard had been close-shaven, stretching ear to ear, his uncle’s was a single strip that hung off his chin like a horse’s tail. His father’s nose had been strong and straight, his lip bare. His uncle’s nose was crooked, broken in a fight from his youth, his lip buried under a bushy mustache. His father’s eyes had always been kind, twinkling, joyful. His uncle’s were hard, cold, and calculating. Like he expected everything to be taken from him in a moment.

As though he could even imagine.

Rufus put a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, and it took every effort for Dimitri not to shrug it off. His uncle leaned in close, smile as sympathetic as it was saccharine, but his eyes burned brightly with accusation. Dimitri bit down his fury and averted his eyes. He could not look at that face and keep his temper.

“Dimitri, it is an important day for our Kingdom,” he murmured. “And you are the Crown Prince.”

“I know,” Dimitri grumbled.

“You _know_ that it is the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Founding Day, and that it is your royal duty as the son of a king to celebrate with your people, and yet you _still_ choose to leave the festivities early?”

Dimitri clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists. Temper. He had to keep his temper. He could not control his strength—he could not control damn near anything—but he could control his temper.

“I am sure the _people_ would not begrudge me a trip to the lavatory of all places,” Dimitri said, more petulantly than he intended. Splendid. So he could not control his temper either.

His uncle at least had the grace to blush. “My apologies, nephew…I suspected you were seeking an escape from your princely obligations.”

This time, Dimitri did not stop himself from tearing his shoulder from his uncle’s grasp. He drew himself up with a deep inhale, finding himself at eye level with his uncle. Lambert had been the taller of the two of siblings, and Dimitri, growing lankier by the day, seemed poised to inherit that position from his father as well.

“You must be mistaking me for the other Prince of Faerghus,” he said, bowing swiftly and stomping away before his uncle could respond. It was petty and Dimitri knew it, but he also knew his uncle would neither follow nor call after him. Rufus of Itha was not one to make a scene, and he had given their guests quite enough to talk about already.

On his way out of the dining hall, Dimitri locked eyes with a tall, dark-skinned young man standing just outside the door. Dedue. The boy from Duscur, the boy he had shielded with his body, the boy he had saved from Faerghus soldiers as they enacted their wrongful vengeance on the people of Duscur—Dedue was the only one he had been able to rescue. Dimitri nodded in his direction, and Dedue followed after him, past the lavatory and out into the western garden.

The cool night air was already an improvement.

Out in the garden with only his friend and the dark night sky for company, there was no staring to bear in silence, no curious whispers to ignore. He did not need to pretend things were as they always had been. To pretend that Duscur had not changed him. To pretend that it had not changed _everything_.

Shuddering, Dimitri took a deep breath. Just because he didn’t have to pretend didn’t mean he wanted to think about it either. He did not want to think about anything.

“Stars are bright,” Dedue said. He was still learning the Fódlan tongue but picking it up quickly. “Good night for a walk.”

“Indeed so,” Dimitri affirmed. “Have you been to this garden before? I know you’re fond of plants.”

Dedue glanced around and shook his head. “I think not.”

“This is my favorite of the three,” Dimitri told him. Most people preferred the central garden, with its grand sculptures and fountains, and the eastern garden was busy, frequented by couples as often as the guards that chased them out. The western garden was quiet and small, the ostentatious giving way to the practical. “Shall I give you a tour?”

Dedue frowned. “…tour?”

“A tour is when you show someone around a place. If we tour the garden, you’ll know where everything is.”

“Ah. Yes. A tour is good.”

“Then we’ll head for the conservatory first.”

As he expected, the building was of interest to Dedue. Dimitri watched as his friend perused the tables filled with rows of different plants in various stages of development. He had never had much of an interest himself in growing things, but watching Dedue examine a leaf or gently sniff a flower made him wish he knew more. When Dedue asked him for more detail, Dimitri could only stammer and read the nearby placards.

“Good tour,” Dedue teased after the third time Dimitri reached for the same sheet to answer him.

“Sorry I don’t know _everything_ ,” Dimitri complained. “I thought all plants were more or less the same.”

Dedue shook his head, lifting a small potted plant closer to his face. “The plants of Fódlan have much difference. Faerghus is cold. The plants of Duscur are—”

He stopped and set the pot carefully back where he had lifted it from.

“The plants of Duscur are no more.”

The air was suddenly suffocating, the weight on his shoulders pressing like stones.

“I’m sorry, Dedue,” Dimitri said dully. “I didn’t think.”

Dedue shook his head again firmly. “Think nothing.”

If only it were that easy. Dimitri wished he could think of nothing. But there was always so much to consider, haunting his step by day and his sleep by night. Things like the unrest rumored to be brewing in the Kingdom under his uncle’s rule. Things like that Dedue would never see his home again, or that the castle occupants were nothing but vile to him. Things like that Dimitri’s father would never take him on the hunting trip he had promised for Dimitri’s fourteenth birthday. Things like that Glenn had finally promised to teach him the fierce jab that had defeated him more times than he could count. Things like that Ingrid’s happy future had been ripped away from her. Things like that Felix would not answer his letters. Things like—

Dedue put a hand on his shoulder.

“You are not thinking nothing,” he said.

Dimitri’s mind swam. He nodded numbly, letting his head drop against Dedue’s chest.

“What are you thinking?” Dedue asked.

Words like bile rose in Dimitri’s throat and crawled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“I wish I had died in Duscur with everyone else,” he murmured.

Dedue grabbed Dimitri by the shoulders, his whisper vehement as his grip.

“ _No_.”

Surprised, Dimitri looked up. Dedue looked back, more animated than Dimitri had seen him in the three short moons they had spent together. He grabbed the back of Dimitri’s head and pressed their foreheads together. His skin was cold.

“Thinking is hard. _Understanding_ is hard. Faerghus is hard,” Dedue said. Dimitri could see him trembling between phrases. “But I learn, and I stay here with _you_. Dimitri—you don’t go. You _stay here_. And I will protect you.”

Dimitri felt his eyes sting as they welled with tears. He could not go with everyone else—he had been left here, tethered by something unknown to fulfill a duty that was greater than Dimitri felt he could ever be. He wanted simply—desperately—for things to return to how they had been and knew down to the marrow of his bones that they never would. But what he wanted did not matter, nor had it ever. He was the son of a king, bound by duty to do right by his people.

_His people, who had spilled the blood of the innocent._

Perhaps the way he could do right by the people of Faerghus was to clear the name of the wrongfully accused, to punish those who were truly guilty. To avenge the fallen.

To dispense justice.

“Dedue…” Dimitri started. He pulled back, wiped his eyes, and made direct eye contact with Dedue. “You are a better friend than I deserve. On my life, I swear it—I will protect you, too.”

Then, with a heavy sigh, Dimitri looked back at the door.

“I know I said I’d give you a tour, but I think I should get back inside. I’m…I’m certain my uncle’s noticed my absence by now. He’s insufferable when he’s not in a bad mood—I can’t imagine how much worse he’ll be when he’s angry.”

Dedue nodded solemnly before a smirk overtook him. “Not a great tour anyway.”

Dimitri rolled his eyes and started towards the door. “I shall endeavor to become an expert in horticulture before the next one.”

“I would like to see that,” Dedue chuckled. Dimitri shot him a dark look, then softened.

“Hey…Dedue?” he asked.

“Yes, Dimitri?”

“How do you say ‘thank you’ in Duscuri?”

Dedue froze a moment, staring at the glass wall ahead of them like he could see something Dimitri couldn’t. He looked to his feet and shuffled, then looked back up. He spoke the words softly, like a secret. Dimitri echoed them back as best he could, the syllables strange on his tongue. The look on Dedue’s face made his heart swell.

“My Fódlan is sound that bad, too?” Dedue said with a grin.

Dimitri threw up his hands and laughed. “No, yours is much worse. Come, my friend. I’ll sneak you some deserts.”

Back in the dining hall, Dimitri took his seat as though he had been gone only a few moments, ignoring the cold looks from his uncle. His dinner had been taken away, replaced with a trio of sweet buns. Surreptitiously, Dimitri snuck one into his napkin and ate the other two with gusto, as though the taste meant something more to him than a reminder of what had been lost.

There were many things in the world far beyond his control, and Dimitri was yet uncertain that he could rise to the task ahead of him. But he was a prince—the only son of Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd, the late King of Faerghus—and he had been raised, despite all odds, to put on a brave face.


End file.
